- 11/22: I know I'm skipping almost an entire week, but in no way can this one wait.
7:30 PM. The restaurant is slammed. Two servers are juggling eighteen total tables between them. Two cooks are churning out fifty bowls of soup. One slightly-overmatched bartender is creating drinks for forty-plus people while keeping track of about fifteen of the aforementioned soups. Three kegs go out in the span of fifteen minutes. I was sweating like a Biggest Loser contestant sent to an American Ninja Warrior tryout. Shit was getting real real. In the middle of all this, homeless man number three this week to get [eventually] kicked out walks in the door.
Oh fuck.
A short back story for this gentleman: he comes in at least three times a week asking the owner for five dollars to sweep the parking lot. I had zero time to listen to a word he said.
Me: [Yelling across the bar] "[Owner]'s not here."
HM3: "What do you mean he's not here?"
Me: "[Owner]'s not here."
HM3: "Man, what is your problem?"
Me: "GET. OUT."
Yes, I sounded exactly like Arnold from the Terminator, except without the amazing Austrian accent. I call the cops at this point, and the dispatcher recognizes my voice. That's a bad thing, right?
At this point, two of my fifteen(?) soups are supposed to be ready, so I turn to rush out of the kitchen, and get the surprise of all surprises.
He followed me INTO the kitchen.
For my fellow service industry friends, you know the reaction I had: complete and utter shock. My instinctual response was turning to throw a right hook that 1980's Mike Tyson would not have performed any better. Thankfully, I stopped myself.
For my non-service industry friends, let me describe the kitchen for you. The kitchen is the safe haven. If you do not work there, you do not go into the kitchen. EVER. It resembles a psychologist that you tell your problems to regarding your tables, except that the walls nor the bread oven give advice back. Usually, all you get is agreement from fellow servers, or if you suck, "What you can't handle one table? I remember my first shift ever."
Me: "Get the FUCK out of the kitchen!"
HM3: *Deer in headlights look*
Me: "Get the FUCK out of the kitchen, why the FUCK are you still standing there!?"
He leaves the kitchen, following me back to the bar. I deliver the soups, go to the computer to turn in another order, look to the right, and there's HM3, standing right in the choke point to get out of the bar.
Me: "I need to leave the bar. Either you move, or I will move you."
Of course he did not move. Why? That would have made sense. So I did the only logical thing I could think of: on my way out of the bar, I placed my hands on his shoulders, and while still supporting him, moved him a foot to the side so I could squeeze by. What was the response?
A flop so bad he would have been penalized heavily by the NBA, NFL, NHL, and FIFA at the same time. It would have spent more time as the #1 Not Top-10 Sportscenter moment for much longer than the Mark Sanchez butt-fumble. Manu Ginobili's only reaction would have been, "damn, that was awful," and offered to teach flopping lessons for free.
The cops finally arrive after what seems like an eternity. Thankfully, my manager talks to them first, and then the cops talk to HM3. Wouldn't you know, HM3 just walked in to talk to me, and without even saying a word, I tried to hulk smash him through the patio door. Yeah, sounds legit. After the cops check out the video feed, they come talk to me, and while they can't say I'm 100% clear, say there is little that can happen to me. Of course, before leaving I give the cop my contact information, in case this mouth-breather decides to actually pursue anything.
This week did not end fast enough.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014
When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong
- 11/15: Nothing to see here, just a hungover bartender.
- 11/16: Wow, this night. And so it begins.
It's late, about midnight, I have some friends sitting at the bar, and we're all just having a good time. I see a lady walk in that I have recognized from before. Sketchy does not even begin to cover it; she looks like she showed up to the five o' clock free crack giveaway, but instead of an intervention, there actually was crack. I notice that she sits on the couch closest to the bar, the same couch I passed out on two nights ago. To her credit, that couch is comfortable as hell.
While keeping a close eye on her, she doesn't do anything for about fifteen minutes. That's when Hilary walked up:
H: "Um, did she just drink my water out of my to-go cup?"
Me: "Wait, that was your cup?"
H: "GROSS! GROSS! EW! OH GOD!"
Hilary is awesome, and yes, this crackhead just drank her water. Needless to say, at this point, she has more of my attention than I cared to give. About ten minutes pass when I notice her pouring something into the to-go cup. My owner had left his full soup bowl on the table as he was schmoozing with some people at the bar. His soup was now in the to-go cup that the crackhead was holding. Oh hell no. I immediately snatch the cup out of her hands and have the ensuing conversation:
Me: "That's not yours."
CH: "I know."
Me: "You need to leave."
CH: "What do you mean I need to leave? I'm waiting on JC."
Me: "I don't care who JC is, and you can wait for him outside."
CH: "Why do I have to leave?"
Me: "Because you just tried to steal someone's soup?"
After this, it got ugly. Real ugly. Throwing out the race card too soon ugly.
"My daddy white, bitch, he fucked a nigga, had me."
"I stay across the street, a transition house fo' gay folks like yo dick in the booty ass." [My personal favorite. How did she know I was a 36 Mafia fan?!]
"Fuck you white boy, suck my dick white boy!"
I had not realized I was bartending with a pillow case over my head with eye-holes cut out. Most of these were yelled at me through our patio window, which brings me to my next point kids: Don't. Smoke. Crack.
- 11/16: Wow, this night. And so it begins.
It's late, about midnight, I have some friends sitting at the bar, and we're all just having a good time. I see a lady walk in that I have recognized from before. Sketchy does not even begin to cover it; she looks like she showed up to the five o' clock free crack giveaway, but instead of an intervention, there actually was crack. I notice that she sits on the couch closest to the bar, the same couch I passed out on two nights ago. To her credit, that couch is comfortable as hell.
While keeping a close eye on her, she doesn't do anything for about fifteen minutes. That's when Hilary walked up:
H: "Um, did she just drink my water out of my to-go cup?"
Me: "Wait, that was your cup?"
H: "GROSS! GROSS! EW! OH GOD!"
Hilary is awesome, and yes, this crackhead just drank her water. Needless to say, at this point, she has more of my attention than I cared to give. About ten minutes pass when I notice her pouring something into the to-go cup. My owner had left his full soup bowl on the table as he was schmoozing with some people at the bar. His soup was now in the to-go cup that the crackhead was holding. Oh hell no. I immediately snatch the cup out of her hands and have the ensuing conversation:
Me: "That's not yours."
CH: "I know."
Me: "You need to leave."
CH: "What do you mean I need to leave? I'm waiting on JC."
Me: "I don't care who JC is, and you can wait for him outside."
CH: "Why do I have to leave?"
Me: "Because you just tried to steal someone's soup?"
After this, it got ugly. Real ugly. Throwing out the race card too soon ugly.
"My daddy white, bitch, he fucked a nigga, had me."
"I stay across the street, a transition house fo' gay folks like yo dick in the booty ass." [My personal favorite. How did she know I was a 36 Mafia fan?!]
"Fuck you white boy, suck my dick white boy!"
I had not realized I was bartending with a pillow case over my head with eye-holes cut out. Most of these were yelled at me through our patio window, which brings me to my next point kids: Don't. Smoke. Crack.
I'm back! Kinda.
This has been one of the most heartbreaking, yet profound weeks in my life. Why is it that we learn the most about ourselves when we least expect it? At any rate, here is a (not-so) brief summary of last week's activities.
- 11/14: Hanging out with Travis and Kara before I head off to San Antonio, trying to get in time with everyone I care about. We start at Pappadeaux. Travis has known one of the bartenders for years, so much so that he makes us frozen drinks that have not been available on the menu for some time.
Now before you ask what color skirt I was wearing for ordering a frozen drink, allow me to describe this concoction. Its name is the Category 5, and there is a reason it was named after the type of hurricane that destroyed New Orleans. This drink provides the same level of destruction on your liver. The ingredients include Bacardi O, Bacardi Razz, Bacardi Limon, frozen margarita, and frozen hurricane. Combine those with a bartender that may or may not have forgotten to count the amount of liquor he poured with the frozen parts, and your body might as well be called Osama, as Seal Team 6 is on its way. Two of these later, and the headshot is coming sooner than anticipated. Oh, and I met the senior litigator for the law firm behind ijustgothit.com. Can't make this stuff up.
We leave Pappadeaux, and decide to visit Daryan at a Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Plano, who is a wizard behind the bar. The seesaw between shots and drinks is quickly teetering to shot's favor. The restaurant is known for creating the best tequila shot ever, called the Dragon shot. This shot is taken in three steps. First, and arguably the most important step, a piece of xi muoi is provided. You put it in your mouth [ed. note: heh], allowing the salt to coat your palate while you chew and swallow it. Second, you shoot the tequila. Lastly, you are provided with a lime coated in the same salt as the xi muoi, and immediately after shooting the tequila, you bite the lime, getting the juice out of it. This process takes all the bite out of the tequila, while ruining all tequila after forever.
After a couple of Dragon shots (maybe?), we decide to see what's going on with the rest of downtown Plano. Not a whole lot has changed since my last visit, as the mass of people we encountered can be best described as a mixture of smelly hipster and pretend douche. Our group quickly heads back to to where we started in Plano, as my chief rule while drinking anywhere in the Metroplex is I don't wait for a drink. All the other bars were PACKED. Daryan makes us an amazing shot consisting of 360 Double Chocolate vodka and Tang. Yes, you read that correctly: Tang. It tastes exactly like an orange tootsie roll, except the probability that you contract cirrhosis goes up.
I part ways with Kara and Travis, and head to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Dallas via Uber. Do yourself a favor and sign up for Uber. Right now. Go ahead, I'll wait.
By this time, words were hard, thinking was hard, signing my tab was hard, and leaving the restaurant was hard. Why was leaving the restaurant hard? I was awoken by the lunch opener at 10 AM. Yep, I slept on the couch in the restaurant at which I am employed. This is how you know you have an amazing boss. The best part is I did not even go home immediately; I waited an hour for the kitchen to open so I could enjoy the amazing hangover remedy that is beef pho. Of course I'm scheduled later that day, and after a crucial nap, I talk to our assistant GM, and all he says is this: "[Laughing] Yeah man, you were wasted, so we let you sleep on the couch, didn't set the alarm, and turned the cameras off in case something happened to you, so we wouldn't be liable." That's how you know you are loved.
- 11/14: Hanging out with Travis and Kara before I head off to San Antonio, trying to get in time with everyone I care about. We start at Pappadeaux. Travis has known one of the bartenders for years, so much so that he makes us frozen drinks that have not been available on the menu for some time.
Now before you ask what color skirt I was wearing for ordering a frozen drink, allow me to describe this concoction. Its name is the Category 5, and there is a reason it was named after the type of hurricane that destroyed New Orleans. This drink provides the same level of destruction on your liver. The ingredients include Bacardi O, Bacardi Razz, Bacardi Limon, frozen margarita, and frozen hurricane. Combine those with a bartender that may or may not have forgotten to count the amount of liquor he poured with the frozen parts, and your body might as well be called Osama, as Seal Team 6 is on its way. Two of these later, and the headshot is coming sooner than anticipated. Oh, and I met the senior litigator for the law firm behind ijustgothit.com. Can't make this stuff up.
We leave Pappadeaux, and decide to visit Daryan at a Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Plano, who is a wizard behind the bar. The seesaw between shots and drinks is quickly teetering to shot's favor. The restaurant is known for creating the best tequila shot ever, called the Dragon shot. This shot is taken in three steps. First, and arguably the most important step, a piece of xi muoi is provided. You put it in your mouth [ed. note: heh], allowing the salt to coat your palate while you chew and swallow it. Second, you shoot the tequila. Lastly, you are provided with a lime coated in the same salt as the xi muoi, and immediately after shooting the tequila, you bite the lime, getting the juice out of it. This process takes all the bite out of the tequila, while ruining all tequila after forever.
After a couple of Dragon shots (maybe?), we decide to see what's going on with the rest of downtown Plano. Not a whole lot has changed since my last visit, as the mass of people we encountered can be best described as a mixture of smelly hipster and pretend douche. Our group quickly heads back to to where we started in Plano, as my chief rule while drinking anywhere in the Metroplex is I don't wait for a drink. All the other bars were PACKED. Daryan makes us an amazing shot consisting of 360 Double Chocolate vodka and Tang. Yes, you read that correctly: Tang. It tastes exactly like an orange tootsie roll, except the probability that you contract cirrhosis goes up.
I part ways with Kara and Travis, and head to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Dallas via Uber. Do yourself a favor and sign up for Uber. Right now. Go ahead, I'll wait.
By this time, words were hard, thinking was hard, signing my tab was hard, and leaving the restaurant was hard. Why was leaving the restaurant hard? I was awoken by the lunch opener at 10 AM. Yep, I slept on the couch in the restaurant at which I am employed. This is how you know you have an amazing boss. The best part is I did not even go home immediately; I waited an hour for the kitchen to open so I could enjoy the amazing hangover remedy that is beef pho. Of course I'm scheduled later that day, and after a crucial nap, I talk to our assistant GM, and all he says is this: "[Laughing] Yeah man, you were wasted, so we let you sleep on the couch, didn't set the alarm, and turned the cameras off in case something happened to you, so we wouldn't be liable." That's how you know you are loved.
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